My time is near and I have to wake up before you die. If this serves as a suicide note, I’ll die by your side. This is not being romantic nor am I being such a show off for death. This is a letter that I hope will keep you alive.

I have so much metaphors in my head that are waiting to be said until time fades along with our being. If poetry is the thin line that connects us to each other, let us pave that neural pathway, expand it with more that we can do together and synchronize the beating of our hearts. I’m keeping everything, condensing every single detail to create an impact. To crash the bulletproof window to your world and disturb the still air and anger the waves to your sea. We need this. We have to live by the ugliness of the world reeking in absurdity. We have to die, and rise from our own ashes and start anew without erasing our memories from the past, hold on to it and let go of the present. Our death will be silent. It is a cause. A cause for a better future. A cause for us to live. A retrospect.

I’ll be good to you. Speaking my words through your ears and rhymes. There is so much that I could say and we’ll be the sower to our greatest achievements that will follow in the future. If we were a mathematical equation, we’ll always divide our memories and add labels to each. Happy, sad, painful and true. Just three words that are never ordinary because each are always multiplied by the power of two. The equation doesn’t end there. We are lines on a graph representing only one true point of intersection. There will be no parallels, no leaving, because such things won’t be ever enough to make me love you less. Just say you’re not into it. Stay.

The Wonderland and Oz has been so overrated. We have what we have and we can still have more that we can. But we’ll keep the stress and misunderstandings. We’ll keep everything that can hurt the both of us. That can eat us alive, burn us to the core and succumb to the illusion that we both love…or maybe I am the only one…

This is not a time for sweet words. We’ve been so vague. I can’t say nothing more to encourage you to suffer with me. Surely, I am such a burden. I am such a burden that you haven’t carried for the past seventeen years. And all this time, I’ve brought pain in my DNA. It is encrypted, flowing through my veins. I am a vessel of a spirit contained waiting to explode like a dormant volcano.

I’m not sure if this is what you have hoped for. If I’m consuming everything that you desired. If I caught you, kept you under my veil of darkness that you once wanted to uncover.

We have time. So much time that we can do to survive. We met so early in this age when everything has been fast-paced. People meet and split up the very next day as if nothing happened. But we, we’re a different story. I’m sorry if I can’t be ordinary. I’m sorry if I’m not what you had hoped for. But this apology will never remain as when I gave it away. If we shall be ordinary, we won’t last. We won’t be as someone we dreamed to be, or only I did…

I thought you’re ready to face everything. This is not a momentarily love affair. We are not temporary. If we hold on to our dreams we can make it. We must make it. Tomorrow will always be the same sad story. Tomorrow will always be the day when we’ll be separated. Tomorrow will always be the night we’ll sleep on our own isolated beds. Tomorrow will always be miserable. Everything is miserable. But we have each other. If we have each other, being miserable is a choice. We can always be happy in our own sad pathetic ways. We can turn it all against everything. Tomorrow will be the day that we’ll be closer to each other. Tomorrow will be the very next moment that we’ll have the chance to talk to each other. To finally fulfill this word on a page in our own story. A day is twenty-four hours. This is something that we should think about. The hours. The minutes. The walk by the hallways in school. Holding each other’s hands. With the person you entrusted your heart. To be broken, to be hurt, to be vulnerable, to be loved.

I see the sunlight pour down every window of the car I sit. And I always wonder, do you see the same sunlight streaks the way I see them? The way it illuminates your face every possible moment that I have the ability to see such wonder unveil itself, the mystery I once dread to uncover is just what I dreamed to see as if everyday, I have a gift from you that I never deserve.

These tiny details, these strong emotions of care, hate and jealousy in simple and little things is a proof that I never would want to lose you. Because I would never have to feel these if I haven’t love you first.

This is a story of air and water drifting into each other. Can you feel the friction? The heat that sways to every wave. I am a bubble under the sea.

Same memories like these were tagged in our minds as something we’ll think of in the future as the things we’re so dumb to come after. Let us not dwell.

Tragedies are stories meant for those who do not have what it takes to beat the hands of destiny. And we’ll continue to live to tell our story.

Here we are again in an extremely ordinary day and me handing out two pictures to you that looked seemingly the same and very much familiar. It is your latest family picture. You wonder why I gave it to you and what would you do with it. Then I say, “Spot the difference between the two pictures.” You unquestioningly did and took a minute and you stare back at me with those piercing eyes, “There’s nothing wrong with the pictures,” you say. “Look again,” I answered back.

For a second you thought the lights flickered and found an empty space where you think you were supposed to be in one of the pictures. You will notice because you’re the one that fills the back in between your mother and father’s head. There were you. But no. You stared at the picture and found yourself exactly where you were supposed to be. It’s just the flickering of the lights. There is no difference.

But in truth there was a difference. You just convinced yourself that it didn’t happen.

That the moment you saw yourself lost was when you see the very room you were standing in seconds ago and you were looking at it in the picture that was once your family picture. How ridiculous it had been, you thought.

Is the thought really that ridiculous to determine the impossibility of the event? Or perhaps we are not only inclined to understand and experience the glitches of time?

And the world is making a huge fuss about it. Whether your parents, friends or even your lovely pets.

The unnatural. The taboo. The spaces that consist behind the closed doors. The restricted. The forbidden. The don’ts. The what ifs. The unseen, invisible and the unexplained. The monster under the bed.

The mysteries of life is what fires up the curiosity of people and therefore adds vigor and color to the everyday life. We are tired of what we know and see if what we are experiencing is truly what life truly is. And yet, such thing as what I’ve just said is what you already knew and probably bored out of your sofa, reading this post. Probably, you don’t have a sofa but this is how predictable the world may seem.

What use is a box if it is empty? Most probably to fill in with new things that could fill the space and meet its capacity. However there is a completely different box. Unopened and in the darkest corner of your basement. It is no ordinary box. It is a black metal box and has a lock and can only be unlocked with a certain set of numbers. It may contain several things you can think of based from the dimensions of the box. It can be huge, small but it doesn’t matter because it all depends on what you can make out of it. The set of numbers are unknown. The thing or things that could be inside is unknown. It could be anything. It could be nothing. But you ask yourself, “What great thing could be possibly locked inside this box?” but in the back of your head, something whispers that it could be empty. The lock is deceiving you. The limit is what makes your mind go wild. But your mind is curious and it disregarded the possibility of the nothingness inside the locked box. Because we are never contented with anything empty and we always put things inside that we can think of that will fit.

Let us try and open the box. You see a 4-digit number lock. The possibilities of each set of number are now crowding your mind. Like endless spoiled and impatient little children waiting in line, screaming for their respective turns but which will you choose first? It doesn’t matter and you began entering random set of numbers with the hopes to unlock the box. You have entered the trial and error stage. Your impatience is growing. Another number set. One after the other. You wait for the click–the signal that you succeeded unlocking the box. Silence. Wrong. You try for another set of numbers. In this situation, you see your masochistic side. Your patience is wearing thin. You cannot open the box, yet you try. You are tired. You lost too much time unlocking the box. What is inside, became your obsession.

So I leave the decision to you. Now, as long as there is still time left for you to enjoy the remainder of your life. You can hide the box and leave it alone for the rest of your life and go back to where you left off, or you can try and open the box because you still cling to the hope you have. The latter has consequences. Severe ones. But one thing is for sure: you cannot bring back the time you have used to open the box. Still, the possibility of it being empty is not ruled out but it is not what you believe. There is something.

Take the first option, leave and forget about everything then stop reading this post right now and go back to your own life.

Take the second option, read on and prepare for the consequences.

I had opened the box and the number is 2710.

The box is empty.

What use is a box if it is empty? Most probably to fill in with new things that could fill the space and meet its capacity. However this is a completely different box. You found a box that is full of nothing. This box took almost half of your time being alive and you have nothing. But this is the only box you have right now. This is now in your possession. Everything that you could have been at this point in time could have been different. But you chose the box. The empty metal box. Which has nothing. You found your life. You found what you are looking for. And time has never deprived you of the chance to start all over again.

It is in itself what we could not see or obscured from our vision and understanding is what makes the little neurons in our brains ignite and floor the gas pedal to power up the engine of Hope. To venture the unknown, the future and the possible past that are never truly there. The futility of men to seek such water-less trenches deep below the grounds of sanity, into the dark, engulfing void where severe consequences and uncertainty lie. The risks are hanged and weighed in the balance with a continuous increase to topple the stack of what is at stake, what you bargained which consists of the things that you loved most. It is where man finds the entrance to madness.

Down the rabbit-hole where Alice faced the unnatural is the place where we turn the tables, close the curtains and tread to the un-walkable path. It is not about courage. It is not about bravery. It is not about safety and certainty but a question that has to be answered, “Are you mad enough to give up all that you know to replace them with something…exquisitely sophisticated?”

Remove the doubts and lies; take all of the irregularities, the chaos, entropy, discord and everything that can possibly lead to destruction and severing of ties. Of all that is left is an uneventful life, place and time. A colorless world woven out of the true meaning. Without obscurity and thinking. Reasoning and imagination will leave the world and all we have there is and all that our brains will do is to kill every brain cell in side of it because we have come to the time of a collective acceptance of information. No questions asked, the stimuli aren’t enough, the mind is in deep slumber and the information itself has grasped and hold our brains to empower an idea. The evolution of ideas some of us may recognize as Memetics. An unseen revolution in an entirely different realm of reality whereas the generators of ideas are now being ruled by its creation.

I thought he’d leave. I thought he’s dead. No. There are many of them. In one place. Confined. Explosive. Deadly.

Who said we’d leave? No. We’ll all die together. You and all of these nonexistent bodies will. These voices will fade. One day, don’t worry. We are forever.

Please. Go away.

You can wish. You can long for it for so much but the reality is waiting at your window. WE WON’T. We don’t disappear. NEVER. Like a rubber band. We’ll spring forward the more you hold back. A force. No. Existence in motion. Pleading won’t help. Containing us won’t do. As long as you’re breathing, we will too. You die, we die. That’s how it works. You’re the captain of this boat, remember? You, of all the chosen passengers inside this hell hole. We all want to get out. The hell I want to stay with you and this rotten pool of nothingness.You just can’t make me leave. All of them will follow. Try and we’ll see you break. We’ll survive but you won’t. Are you up for it? Will you sacrifice yourself for the uncertain sanctuary we propose? Will it be what you think it will be? Will you be at peace? Or be forever haunted by us, when we are not even inside you anymore? We are abomination. Even you. This is not a game anymore. This is the risk you took. You know even form the start that it will crush you to the core. You invested a lot. A lot of negative to push through your optimism. It’s killing you bit by bit with every smile and laugh and with every feeling that you experience will slowly die out like a candle being blown away to the air. Because you are not needed anymore. I want to emphasize your pathetic state. Your slow decay. Your worthlessness. I am laughing. Look at you. Scarred to from the surface to the blood and to the very corner of your DNA. It’s in your blood. It’s in your name. The very epitaph of being nobody. Just another person living and breathing and sharing the same name. That no one sees, hear nor feel. I am pulling you down here and back where you belong. You know, your hands are weak. It’s not even a full hour and typing this makes me tired and all. Why? Why do you put up with everything in your life? Why do you even try? You don’t have all the answers? You just make the problems worse. Nobody cares. You insolent little freak. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. But it feels great. It’s fun. You can’t even speak.

B-

NO. SHUT THE FUCK UP. Your voice won’t be heard. YOU ARE NOTHING! Oh will you look at that beautiful tears. How priceless. Because it’s not even worth anything. Say hello to that blade on your table. Look how shiny that is. That delicate razor sharp blade. Why do you keep a thing like that inside your room? What? Are you going to escape again? I bet you don’t feel anything right now. Your world wears a lot of sign that says NOTHING. Yes. Bury it deep down.

Stop. Please… This is too much…

TOO MUCH WHAT? IF SO THEN GIVE UP! NOTHING IS MORE EASY THAN THAT IS IT? COMPLAINING, THAT IS WHAT YOU’RE GOOD AT RIGHT? YOU DON’T TRY TO SOLVE YOUR PROBLEMS! YOU. RUN. FROM. THEM. YOU COWARD ASSHOLE! Look at where this has gotten you. Right now. At this very moment, where is the heat? No there is no heat. THERE IS NO LIFE! EVEN YOUR FAMILY DOESN’T EVEN RECOGNIZE EVERYTHING YOU DO!

Leave. P-please… Leave me alone…

You can’t make me go away just like that. My job here is to break you down to pieces. AND I AM NOT YET OVER. I want you to die. I want you to die tonight. Before midnight. Because for no reason. I just want you to. You‘ll suffer more when you see yourself being left for dead because what better would you be than a lifeless body? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA THIS IS MORE FUN THAT I THOUGHT! I wonder why I only pushed it this far. You don’t even fight back. You can’t. You don’t want conflicts that’s why you push them away from you. Let the others deal with your own problems. But you know what? You can’t do that to me because I am not your problem. YOU’RE MY PROBLEM YOU WORTHLESS SCUM! I always think that why should it be you. Why does it have to be you who’s always out there in the limelight and doing ABSOLUTELY-FUCKING NOTHING to your life. WASTING IT FOR SELFISH COWARDLY PURPOSES and here I am, TRAPPED IN YOUR HEAD, watching everything you do and I can’t do anything but blabber words…

It’s her…

Are you saying something?

It’s–

NO OF COURSE NOT! WHY WOULD YOU SAY ANYTHING? It’s not even what you’re made of. You only keep things in yourself. And thanks to that I WAS BORN! Yes. I am a compilation of your regrets…wait, no, let me rephrase that–I AM A COMPILATION OF YOUR PAST! How wonderful. I must admit, I’m amazed of how you created me. I am your voice. I AM THE BEST TORTURE DEVICE EVER MADE! I take all of the pain that you feel and compress it, make it more dense, sprinkle some spikes and voila! A ball of fantastic memories ready to be served hot. So here’s another one I made for you. Now EAT IT! I think I added some preservatives. Wait let me look…oh it says here on the box: “Do not eat while it’s hot…hmmm…fires hopes up and turns it to ash” oops.

I haven’t heard from you in almost a week. I hope you’re doing fine because I’m not. I’ve been having trouble breathing lately. I don’t know why and what this is or is it even a serious disease? I’m not sure. You know I’m not fond with the doctors. They’re too bossy in terms of drug prescriptions and in almost everything about things that I must and must not do. I can take care of myself. I’m not doing anything stressful lately so maybe this is just normal in aging. Though mother’s a nurse, I don’t talk much with her. Sometimes I just act normal or leave slowly from her sight before my panic attack kicks in. She won’t understand me. She won’t. She’ll always blame my writing and rant about why would I stay up all night writing my novel and not do it during the day. It’s really disappointing since she’s my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if some writers share this problem with me. I mean, the way she’s so focused about health that she’s gradually forgetting about me. She doesn’t care about me. She cares about my well-being and from my point of view, those two are different from each other. It just increases the gaps between us and the fact that I can view a single thing from several different perspectives suggests that I should be the one to understand. And I hate it.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back to my ordinary life. And maybe you’re tired of hearing this over and over again but…I don’t know. I just can’t unsee things that are not there. Everything around me just creates its own new layer of meaning. As if I can see through things and I am not sure if what I see is what it really is or is it just what I want it to be. It’s like everything has gone personal.

I keep rereading your letters. Every night and it’s what keeps me awake and I may have memorized a dozen of them. I just want to hear your voice over and over and it is what I hear everytime I read them. I just want you to be here. I want to talk with you because I know you’ll understand. It’s been months since we last met. I know you’re busy. I just want to know you’re safe. If you’re well or are you losing that blush on your cheek, hell it’s driving me insane. Sometimes, I look at the stars at night and think about if you’re seeing the same pattern that I’m seeing And I heard that tomorrow is going to be a full moon. And it’s your birthday. You may receive this letter later than I expect but I just greeted you a day earlier. I guess that makes sense.

Along with the envelope of this letter are poems I’ve written for you everytime I take a break from writing. You know it’s a relief to pour my emotions that block my mind to a paper. And it’s all about you. I just hope you like it and take it as my birthday present for you. Though I may not have much anything to say but feel free to find it inside these poems. I hope you can see what I refused to write and you might be amazed about the things that you can find but is never truly there.

Yours truly,

Cheshire

P.S.

I can write more long letters if you will. It’s just I have nothing to reply with.